How the fuck am I supposed to work when I just found out that Erykah Badu is coming out with a candle that smells like her pussy? Fucking gross. And not only that, but the Diversity and Inclusion committee at work sent out an email with this suggestion: "Culture Attire Dress Up day on Friday, February 21st!!! Please wear your African American cultural attire and join us for a group picture." What do these two things have to do with each other, you ask? Not a fucking thing besides they both entered my consciousness within the last five minutes. And honestly, I wish Erykah Badu wasn't black in this case, but she is.
I would like it known from the start that anything I say about Erykah Badu's pussy has nothing to do with the color of her pussy. I'm not 100% sure, but I'm guessing that race doesn't affect pussy smell too much. If I'm wrong, please leave a comment with some well-documented evidence. Don't use Wikipedia as a source for whatever racial pussy-smell research you do. It won't be accepted.
Okay, I just did some of my own research (The Guardian, 2/12/20) about this pussy candle situation and found out two things:
1) Erykah Badu is actually making pussy-smell incense, not candles.
2) Motherfucking Gwyneth Paltrow DOES have a pussy-smell candle.
This is somewhat of a relief since Gwyneth Paltrow is white as fuck. Phew!
Wait, fuck, again, I'm not saying I bet her pussy smells better than Erykah Badu's pussy because she's white. I bet their pussies smell about the same, or at least on the same continuum of regular-girl pussy smells. I'm relieved because I feel much better about suggesting Gwyneth Paltrow's pussy stinks just as bad as Erikah Badu's. I mean, I'm sure both their pussies smell fabulous, but then again, they are pussies.
Okay, ladies, if you're still reading, I can imagine that not only do you think I'm a pussy-smell racist, but also that I'm just an asshole. Like, "Hey motherfucker, you think your taint smells so great?! You're a fucking dumb racist asshole and my pussy smells like magic. Asshole." I'm not saying that at all. I've smelled my taint, and I can tell you one thing for sure, no one wants a goddamn candle (or incense) that smells like my taint, or balls, or asshole, for that matter. Also fucking gross.
Do I need any more caveats? (Caveat isn't exactly the word I'm looking for but it's close.) Maybe I should do some virtue signaling. Fuck it, I think I'm good for now.
I found out about Erykah Badu's pussy-smell candle from my buddy Puerto Rican Johnny. We went downstairs to smoke, and once we were out of hearing distance from any normal people he says, "Dude! Did you know that Erykah Badu is putting out a candle that smells like her pussy?"
"Fucking gross! Who the fuck wants a pussy-smell candle?"
"I'd love to smell Erykah Badu's pussy!" he said.
"I'm not saying I'm opposed to smelling her pussy, like if I happened to run into her in the Kroger parking lot and she said, 'Hey Trey, want to smell my awesome pussy?' I would say, 'Hell yeah, Erykah Badu, I would love to smell your awesome pussy!' But would I want to come home from a long day of editing and farting around on the internet and light a candle that smelled like her pussy? Fuck no!"
"You're gay," Puerto Rican Johnny said.
"You're gay!" I said.
"And racist!" he said.
"Why the fuck am I racist? I'm hanging out with you."
"First of all, you're not wearing any African American Culture attire."
"Neither are you."
"I don't have to. I'm Puerto Rican."
"What the fuck does that mean? I'm fucking Irish."
"You're not Irish. You're a white dude from Texas."
"Either way, I would get my ass beat if I wore a fucking dashiki or whatever."
"Okay, you're right. You probably would get your ass beat," he said. After a brief pause, he said, "Oh yeah, you think Erykah Badu's pussy is gross because she's black! Racist fucker."
"Dude, I don't want to smell any pussy candles, no matter what color they are."
"Whatever," he said.
"Whatever yourself," I said. Then I thought of a perfect point: the hottest girl at work—we'll call her Smlashley Snith. She's undeniably hot and everyone would happily smell her actual pussy.
"Actually, fuck that. Even if there was a candle that smelled like Smlashley's pussy, I still wouldn't want that."
"Motherfucker, you would drink a Smlashley Snith pussy candle! You said you'd drink a gallon of homeless dude jizz just to lick her asshole."
Hold on, guys and gals, the VP of Digital Fuckery just sent me a message on Teams asking what I was working on. Be back in a sec…
Okay, she wanted to make sure I'd finished the diversity style guide for our freelance writers. I swear to god this is true. I did that shit last week after one writer used the word "Eskimo" in an article about the MBA in Supply Chain Management at a school in Alaska. Everyone knows you can't say "Eskimo." Jesus.
Where was I? Oh yeah, pussy-smell candles. Or was it the dumbass Diversity and Inclusion Committee. I'll start there.
I want to write an anonymous email to them pointing out their retardation. First of all, not all black people in America identify with their African roots. They should fucking know that. My black buddy, for example, was not pleased. And also, there was no mention that just African Americans should wear African shit, though it kind of goes without saying. But what about the dipshit white guy who doesn't know better? Maybe he's trying to be diverse and inclusive and maybe he's on the spectrum and he's trying hard to fit in and be normal? He's going get his ass beat just because of his good intentions. And finally, how "inclusive" is it to exclude half the company from the festivities? Not very.
Yeah, I know I'm showing my white male privilege. But I don't want a special white dude day. I just want something that actually includes everyone, or at least doesn't fuck up the nice Aspergery guy who works in analytics.
But whatever, pussy-smell candles!
After thinking too deeply on the subject (I'm bored as fuck today and my boss gives no flying fucks what I'm doing), I started to think about how you would actually make a pussy-smell candle. First, I thought about what it would take to create a candle with authentic pussy juice. But I don't think it's the juice that has the aroma. I think it's the bacteria. Don't get your panties in a wad about that, ladies. Every human has bacteria everywhere, so that's not an insult. Though we do have to consider bacterial vaginosis, but I doubt Erykah Badu or Gwyneth Paltrow have that. But even if they do, I'm not judging. It can happen to anyone. Anyway, I don't think you could scrape off enough pussy bacteria to make more than a couple candles. So what could make that smell?
And then it hit me: tacos. Tacos sometimes have a faint pussy-adjacent smell, which has always fascinated me a bit. I quickly went through my special taco recipe in my head and decided that it has to be a mix of cumin (no pun), chili powder, and meat. Maybe paprika? If I were at home, I would probably try to concoct something, but I don't have any taco ingredients at my desk.
And just imagine you're a candle scientist and you get an order for pussy-smell candles. I mean, I'm sure they know way more about how to make things smell a certain way that I do, but still. Does the candle scientist get to smell Erykah Badu or Gwyneth Paltrow's actual pussies before they start mixing? Do they send the candle scientist a pair of their dirty panties?
And who the fuck wants to have that burning in their house? Maybe it would be a special masturbation candle. Like dudes get in the bathtub, light their pussy candles, and smoke a joint while beating off in the bubbles. Or maybe it's just for those Japanese dudes who buy used panties out of those vending machines.
Or maybe I'm just a weirdo who doesn't particularly like a very strong smelling vagina. Normal aroma? Yay! But if it's strong enough for a candle, that's too much for me.
Stay tuned for my upcoming lineup of Trey's Taint-Smell Products!
I sorta live-blogged this, so it's gonna be sloppy. I'm leaving it that way because I like the realism and I'm lazy.
I've been working on this blog for at least a year now. And by "working on" I mean engaging with women (robots) who slide into my DMs on Twitter or IG. I take screenshots and wait for shit to get wild. What usually happens is I get bored. I've deleted a shitload of screenshots over the last year. Today though, I feel like keeping at it. Maybe it's because this has been a long-ass week for no reason and I'm bored as fuck at work.
This seems like a great idea every time I attempt it. But these fucking porno lady robots are so fucking stupid.
The two I'm chatting with today are super lame. Neither has hit me up to look at their naked pics or give them money. Yet. One has a pic of some old lady who must be her grandma. I'm pretty sure that English is not their native language, which is fine, of course, but I’m not going to say anything else because I would feel bad about making fun of some marginalized eastern European robot's shitty grasp of the English language.
Holy shit! The one with the grandma pics asked me where I’m from. I told her Dallas and she said she used to live in Dallas and mentioned a shitty suburb south of the city. Fucking weird. Would a robot know about Duncanville?
In the past, I've asked if the person contacting me was a robot. This seems to offend the shit out of the porno lady robots. "NO I not be a robot!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I'm not sure why that's an offensive question. I mean, we all know those goddamn eastern European/Russian porno lady robots are all over the internet.
I'm taking a different tack this time. (I've never used the work "tack" like that in my entire life.) I'm just telling them the craziest shit I can think of. Ok, that's not true. I'm telling them the first dumb shit that comes to mind. For example, I just told one of these chicks that I'm recently divorced because my wife fucked a rodeo clown.
By the way, I'm chatting with these robot chicks right now—in case you couldn’t tell. And I'm trying not to get confused. The other one wants me to do some pyramid scheme bitcoin shit. I'm a little disappointed with that one, though I do have the opportunity to make 8% on all my referrals. Woot! She even sent me copies of her latest paystubs.
So far, no titties.
Fuck. The porno lady bot that isn't in fact a porno lady bot, despite the pic of her big-ass titties in her avi, just asked me if I'm still here. I apologized and told her I had to call my financial advisor about this awesome, money-making scheme of hers. She asked what he said. "Well, MeganSmith808, he told me that I shouldn't make any financial moves this quarter. Sorry about that." She said she understood. Then she added, "That's his mindset though[.]" I was expecting her to follow up and try to get me to go against my fictional financial advisor's wishes, but unfortunately, she did not.
I'm still working on the first porno lady robot.
This has taken a bit of an unexpected turn: I'm starting to believe she's an actual person, even though I know that there's no way she's a real person. The problem is that I'm starting to feel too guilty to say crazy shit. Even though I know she's a fucking Russian porno lady bot. I will give her programmers this though: her AI is patient as fuck. It's like they know that if they ask me to click a link too early that I'll bounce.
Another thing: her pics look real as fuck. She doesn't look like a porno lady at all. She's cute enough, I guess, but some of her pics are—well, she doesn't look so great in some of them. We'll call her MarySmiff1998 (Mary for short) so I don't have to keep typing eastern European porno lady robot #2 over and over again.
Back to my fictional wife fucking a rodeo clown: After I told her about my wife fucking the clown, she said, "Sorry about that dear I understand[.]" And then, "That doesn't sound good."
Well, fuck no, it's not good if your wife fucks a rodeo clown! I told her it was terrible. She said, "It happens to me too," which was pretty fucking confusing. Or it would be confusing if this were a real girl. Unless she is actually a very patient lady whose first language is not English, which is fine, of course. I'm not a xenophobe or anything like that. Anyway, after some other garbled bullshit, she asked me how I found out. I told her that I caught them in the act. I was actually picturing this, and that was a little scary.
Rodeo clowns are tough as fuck and I'm pretty much a big-ass pussy. I imagined this fucking guy (his name is Clint) beating me up after he fucked the shit out of my wife. And that would be extremely terrible. I'm not sure I could recover from that. And I bet Clint can fuck like a mad man too. My bitch wife probably had like 50 fucking orgasms, and she probably squirted too.
Jesus Christ, I was really starting to hope Mary was real and that she could save me from being a lonely old bastard whose wife got railed by a rodeo clown and had 50 orgasms and squirted.
Anyway, after she said "it happens to me too," I almost shit myself laughing. That's when my cube mate asked me what I was laughing at. She was mildly amused when I told her. Mildly.
"So have you tried dating online before?" Mary asked.
Here we go, I thought. I told her I hadn't done any online dating. She said it really works and we should get to know each other better. Hell yeah, I thought. Then she asked me how old I am. Goddammit, this little whore was about break it off because I am an old fucker who was cuckolded by a goddamn clown.
Turns out, though, that she doesn't think 43 is very old at all, even though she's only 23. (She'll be 24 in a couple of weeks.)
Was I getting horny? I have no idea what's happening.
She said some other bullshit, and then she said, "Guess I like you[.]"
"I think I like you too! This is so weird!"
Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit…
"Are you truly ready to move on and settle down with the right lady in your life?" Mary asked.
"Whoa, sugar! I just found my wife fucking some other dude a couple months ago. I'm nowhere near settling down."
(I'm so fucking mad at my real wife right now, I could fucking strangle her. How fucking dare she!?)
"You still have bad thought?" Mary asked.
I decided I needed to calm down a little so I didn't scare her off. "I just want to have fun for a little while." What I was really thinking was, "I want to get high as shit and fuck the shit out of a hot-ish 23 year-old girl from Transylvania or wherever the fuck you're from." But of course, I couldn't say that because I'm a gentlemen and gentlemen don't talk to ladies that way.
Holy shit, you guys! I'm starting to think that Mary might actually be hoping to marry me and get her green card so she can escape all of the terrible shit going on in Transylvania. This conversation is still going on, by the way. She seriously seems to want to settle down. What the fuck kind of robot porno lady AI algorithm wants to settle down?
And now she wants to see a picture. I told her that my profile is full of them—this is Instagram, for Christ's sake—but she said she wanted a "live" one, which I took to mean a pic of me right now today. Fuck that. I found an older selfie of me in the elevator that I forgot I took. (Selfies are fucking terrible for the most part, especially mine.)
But I didn’t send it immediately. I told her to go first, and she sent a video of her in a car. There was some shitty music going and she was sort of singing along. It wasn’t very attractive, but I said “wow” and that she was cute. I feel guilty about lying. Then I sent her my pic. She sent me a heart emoji and also said “wow.”
I drove home and didn’t check IG again until this morning. She sent one message that said, “Are you there?” Then this morning, she said hi and good morning. I finally responded when I got to work and told her I just got up.
Then she asked me if I’m mad at her.
But I want to let her down gently because I’m sure her life in Transylvania (and Duncanville) and now California hasn’t been great so far.
I just asked her why she decided to contact me. Waiting...
I had to edit an article titled "5 Writing Jobs for the Modern Era" first thing this morning, and I was fucking pumped. I love killing articles; this was going to be a bloodbath. The freelance "writer" who shat it out is completely illiterate. Even if the writing was great, there would still be heavy edits due to the bullshit subject matter. All lies, unless some of those jobs involved fellatio, suicide, drug and alcohol problems, long-term poverty, or mopping up spooge from those video closets at the dildo store.
The article did not include any of those things. In fact, a few sections (which might as well have been written in crayon) attempted to encourage young English majors by telling them about the fabulous salaries they would soon make—complete horseshit.
Here are the jobs the original article suggested with some real-world examples of what those jobs entail and my experience with them.
A blogger writes random shit on the internet. I hate bloggers and I hate the internet. (Yes, I'm fully aware that this is a blog on the internet.)
I had an interview for a blogger job a few years back.
Interviewer: So, Trey, tell me why you want to be a blogger.
Me: I don't, really. But I like to eat.
Me: But really, I think bloggers are the new journalists and I want to be a part of the zeitgeist.
Interview: What kind of virality do you think you can create?
Me: One sec, I just puked in my mouth a little bit.
Interviewer: We'll be in touch.
2. Social Media Writer
A social media writer writes posts for social media, usually promoting some brand. You might also respond to customer complaints and shit like that. I've actually done this job for a company that is NOT Airbnb.
Customer: The house I stayed in SUX their were hidden cameras under the toilet seat and I know your going to TRY to sell my PICs on the internet, I want my MONEY back or else I'm going call YOU out on twitter I have 217 followers!!!!! I'll put you right OUT OF bizzNESS!!!!!!!! (Grammatical and spelling mistakes are those of the customer.)
Me: First of all, there are no hidden cameras anywhere in that home. Second of all, no one, and I mean no one, wants to see your nasty ass and/or vagina. I can see the picture next to your name, lady. Gross. Finally, I don't give a shit. Go. Fuck. Your. Self….Hold on. How in the fuck does a person as stupid as you are have a job that pays enough to rent a vacation home in Lake Tahoe? Fuck this job. I kwit!
The company I worked for did not like this response and neither did Facebook.
3. UX Writer
I don't really want to explain this job, but "UX" stands for user experience. "Writing" stands for writing, sort of. Here's how my interview for that one went.
Interviewer: Trey, tell me about your background in user experience.
Me: Well, UX didn't exist until five minutes ago, so…
Interview: Thank you, Mr. BLANK. We'll be in touch.
This is ok work if you can get it and you don't mind starting out poor as fuck. I've had a shitload of interviews for this role.
Interviewer: So, Trey, give me a little of your writing background.
Me: Um, well, I've written a lot of stuff. I was even chosen to read one of my stories at the Dallas Museum of Art. I also have a master's degree. (This was early on in my career, so I figured the dude would give me the job on the spot and show me to my office.)
Interviewer: What kind of stuff do you write? (He did air quotes.) Ad copy?
Me: Not exactly, but if you think about it, isn't all writing trying to sell something? Know what I mean?
Interview: Not exactly. (He paused and looked at my resume.) It says here you've published short fiction in various literary journals, including international publications.
Me: That's true.
Interviewer: So you're a real writer? (air quotes again)
Me: Yes. (What the fuck is that supposed to mean?)
Interviewer: I think you're over qualified.
Me: I think you should go fuck yourself.
Anyway, I had to rewrite the entire thing, and here's what I got.
Three Realistic Job Options for English Majors
So you decided to not listen to your parents and major in English. Maybe you wanted to write the Great American Novel. Maybe you just loved reading. Maybe you have some of sort of delusional personality disorder. Maybe you heard about all the pussy you'll get as a writer (see previous sentence). No matter why you made this horrid decision, you're about to graduate and you have no idea what to do with yourself.
You're in luck! Here are three jobs perfect for undergrad English majors:
1. Pizza Delivery Man
Delivering pizzas is pretty great. You get to drive around by yourself, smoking cigarettes and listening to music. There are asshole customers, but you're only with them for 30 seconds. If you're a good drunk driver, you can even have a couple of tall-boys toward the end of your shift. You might make enough money to support yourself, but you also might have to stay with your mom for a bit. Bonus: you might get laid from time to time—but it won't be because you're a writer.
Clichés are clichés for a reason, so yes, you might get invited in to fuck a lonely housewife from time to time.
WARNING: ONLY FUCK LONELY HOUSEWIVES IN FANCY NEIGHBORHOODS. TRUST ME ON THIS ONE.
This one summer in grad school, I was delivering pies in a super fancy neighborhood. It was hot as fuck and the air conditioner in my car was broken. I had a sweat stripe across the front of my shirt and my back was a swamp. Anyway, I show up at this lady's house and she says, "Oh my god! You poor thing! Come in out of the heat. Do you want a bottle of water? Maybe something a little stronger?" Wink.
She was also hot as fuck. Probably 35, which seemed a little old to me at the time. But again, she was hot as fuck. I could see her kids playing in the pool out back. There was an old Mexican lady out there who I assumed was the nanny. The AC felt so good and her house smelled like a candle store. She sat me down on one of the bar stools at her kitchen island, gently rubbing her manicured nails across my back as she did so. "I'm Trish, by the way."
"Trey. Nice to meet you." I smiled.
"Very nice to meet you." She went to the fridge and opened both doors, bending over much farther than she needed to to get the water on the bottom shelf. She was wearing short, low-rise jean shorts with white paint splotches on them. She straightened and grabbed an Amstel Light—which I though was super fancy back then—off the top shelf. "One for the road, one for here?" she asked. "And don't worry, my husband's out of town so he won't notice a missing beer."
I hadn't been thinking about what her husband might think at all, but I'm pretty sure that she was just telling me that he was out of town and we could fuck. But I was young and didn't think about that kind of shit happening in real life. Ah, the innocence…
Long story short, I went back to her house when I got off work. Her kids were in bed, fast asleep, and we had drinks by the pool. Then we fucked on a lounge chair. It was awesome, except that she started crying right after we finished. (Jesus Christ, I have boner just thinking about it 15 years later.) I felt pretty wack at the time, thinking my wiener made her cry or something like that. Pulling out of her neighborhood, as I was lighting a cigarette, I fucking started to cry for some reason, and it didn't have a goddamn thing to do with my wiener, her fabulous pussy, or anything else I could put my finger on.
Now that I'm an older gentleman, I've realized that her crying didn't really have shit to do with me. My crying was probably due to my growing alcoholism and feeling like a failure and shit like that.
After that night, the Mexican nanny came to the door when I came with a delivery. I was a bit sad about it at the time, but then again, you can't really complain about free beer and pussy.
So yeah, delivering pizzas is a pretty good option for a newly graduated English major.
2. Assistant Model Home Attendant
This job is also pretty great. You sit in a model home all day and wait for people to come in. If you're the assistant you don't have to do anything but say hi and hand out brochures to potential home buyers. If you're the assistant, you only work weekdays, so almost no one ever comes in.
While you're waiting to say hi to people and hand them brochures, you can basically do whatever you want. Watch movies, jerk off, whatever. (In fact, I finished the first draft of my novel in a model home.) You can take naps. You can get drunk. You could fuck.
This one day, I was practicing for a solo show I had coming up. I was running through my acoustic rendition of "Highway to Hell" and started to get a little horny. It had been a long time and I was thinking about groupies—well, not groupies exactly, but nice young ladies who might want to hear a Christopher Cross/Megadeth mashup. My boner was making it hard to concentrate, and masturbation seemed like the only remedy. This was back when porn was not readily accessed from cell phones, so I had to use my mind. I was imagining this one cheerleader from 10th grade who had some badass knockers. I had a whole scenario where she came to my show completely at random and then we finger-banged. Anyway, right as I was about to put my hand down her panties, the goddamn door chime went off.
I quickly pulled up my khakis and tucked in my Centex Homes polo, all of a sudden wondering if they had cameras in the bathroom. I walked into the living room and saw a dude I'd seen before and his kid.
"Trey! How's it goin? Is Bob here today? I wanna take a look at the house again."
"Good to see you, Jim," I said. "No, Bob isn't here today, but I can give you the key."
I was turning around to get the key out of the office when I heard him say, "Trey, you play guitar?"
"Sorta." I'd forgotten my guitar was leaning against the fake couch.
"Play us a song!"
Fuck. "Nah, you don't want to hear a song. I'm not very good."
"Little Bobby here really wants to hear a song. Look at this face. How could you say no?"
Shit. "Okay, just let me grab the key."
My mind went blank and couldn't think of one song they might like. My version of "Sailing" was nowhere near ready. I picked up the guitar anyway and noodled around for a second before remembering that I knew how to play "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away." I played the shit out of that.
They both clapped when I finished. Then Bob said, "Trey, that's some great guitar work, but you're no John Lennon."
And in case you're wondering, I didn't get it on with any nice young ladies after that show. Not even a finger-bang.
According to PayScale you can make enough money to move out of your mom's house, but just barely.
3. Blood, Semen, and Poop Purveyor
Selling blood, semen, and poop seems like the best job on the planet to me. I have plenty and I can make more. According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, blood, semen, and poop purveyors make an average annual salary of $41,350, and the growth outlook is 7% between 2018 and 2028.
Unfortunately for me, my blood, semen, and poop are probably not of the highest quality. I have diabetes blood, and I'm 100% no one wants my poop. It's been a wreck back there since the 90s for various reasons, including but not limited to anxiety, alcoholism, bad diet, cigarettes, weed, LSD, graduate school, beer, Jaeger, and a missing gall bladder. I'm not totally sure about my semen. I haven't every gotten any chicks pregnant besides possibly that one girl from ping pong tournament back in 01.
So there you go, English majors. Get out there and make that money!
I apologize for any typos or other shit I may have missed. Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101. Share everywhere. I'll give you free stuff and my everlasting love and affection.
My friend PH called me a few weeks ago to tell me about robot babies coming out of robot vaginas. “Yeah, that shit’s crazy,” he said. “Real robot babies coming out of real fucking robot vaginas!” I couldn’t even count the ways this intrigued me. First of all, robots are fucking cool. I’m not a techno-geek or anything like that; I just like the idea of robots doing shit for me. I used to dream of robots getting me beers while I was watching the World Cup and shit like that.
And then there was the robot vagina. Jesus Christ, the possibilities were endless. Before I go on, I must tell you that I’m not one of those dudes who fucks machines or fake vaginas or anything like that. I kick it old school. Just give me a bottle of Jergins and a good internet connection, and I’m ready to go. Anyway, I had to know more.
“Dude, where did you hear about this? I need details.”
“Well, Laura…” Laura is his wife and she delivers babies for a living—mid-wife, I think you call it. “She was at work and she was getting prepped for some students who were coming in the next week when they wheeled in this robot vagina.”
“No shit. It’s not just a vagina either. It’s got legs and a belly and all that. It might even have tits. I didn’t want to ask about that though.”
“And robot babies come out of there?” I said.
“Oh yeah. It’s some new training tool. She said they video it, making sure the hand movements are correct and all that.”
“That sounds like a very realistic robot pussy.”
“Oh yeah. That’s exactly what I was thinking,” he said.
We talked a little more about it, and then we talked about his kids and work and shit like that. When we got off the phone, I tried to look this up on the internet. I searched “robot vaginas,” “robot babies,” and everything else I could think of. I found a bunch of sex toys, some tiny robots, but no real robot pussy. My attention span is pretty short when I’m doing research, so I kind of gave up after twenty minutes. I smoked some cigarettes, watched a Hilary Duff movie, and went to sleep. That night I dreamed about robot poon tang.
I usually take dreams as some sort of sign. Usually it’s a sign for me to call up some ex-girlfriend and see if she wants to have sex. (That almost never works, by the way.) Anyway, I knew I had to find one of these robot pussies and try to fuck it. I knew exactly where to go.
I could have gone to Baylor, where Laura works, but I didn’t want her to know what I was up to. She might get pissed off at PH for telling me about it. Presbyterian Dallas was the place. I pretty much lived at that fucker for four months last year, due to a horrible drinking accident which ended with my pancreas exploding. Anyway, I knew where everything was and secret ways to get there. I took a shower and hopped in my car.
Driving up to the hospital kind of scared me, like a flashback or something. I pushed that out of my mind and thought of robot pussy. I imagined again how realistic that shit must be. I mean, if your hand movements have to be correct, then the robot pussy must have robot pussy muscles, right? I kind of got a boner driving into the parking lot. I got out of my car and smoked in the no-smoking zone to piss off this one security bitch. (She kept trying to get me kicked out of the hospital—even while I had tubes and IVs and shit everywhere.)
I said Hi to the gift-shop chicks and this nurse I knew who was sitting in the lobby. I rode up the elevator with fifty people, and they all looked sick. I used a shitload of hand sanitizer the second I got off the elevator. I was wondering what I should say when I got to the nurse’s station when I got the baby floor, but I was like, fuck it. I walked up and waited for someone to notice me. It took a while, which didn’t surprise me. “Hi, I’m Trey, and I was wondering where the robot babies and vaginas are.”
“The what?” she said. She wasn’t quite as friendly as I’d hoped.
“Well, I’m about to start mid-wife school, and I want to see the robot vaginas.” I was sure that would get me right in.
“Are you from Building Three?” Building Three was where they kept the crazies, the drug addicts, and the retards.
“No. I just wanted to see what I’m getting into, and I figured y’all wouldn’t let me see any actual vaginas.”
“You’re right about that,” she said. “But we don’t have any robot babies or robot vaginas here. Can you hold on a sec?” She picked up the phone and dialed the security extension. I’d seen that shit enough to know. I knew she was lying about the robot pussies too; I could just about smell them.
“Thanks,” I said and walked as quickly as I could to the elevators. I took the elevator up to the sixth floor to hide out and say hi to some of my nurses. Unfortunately, none of the hot ones were there, but neither was the super-mean Asian one. Shay was there, and she hugged me hard and told me I looked great. I loved her; I never had to ask her for my pain shot, and she never talked about me getting addicted or how I shouldn’t be smoking cigarettes. Big black ladies make badass nurses. (That wasn’t a racist statement when I wrote this.) We chatted for a few minutes, and then I walked to the stairwell in the back by the ice machine.
As you might know, hospitals are fucking mazes. It can be a bitch to just find the right room. But behind the scenes, it’s crazy. It’s like that shit in The Shining, except that it smells like shit, piss, and chemicals. Luckily, after you’ve lived in a hospital you know the back ways. I knew I couldn’t go right back to the baby floor because the security people might still be looking for me. I walked down the stairs and through the emergency room to smoke out back. I smoked three cigarettes to pass the time before I couldn’t wait any longer.
I walked back to the second floor and grabbed a plastic gown and some gloves. (For some reason, the second floor is totally empty.) I walked up the back stairs to the third floor and poked my head out the door. I didn’t see that bitch nurse or any cops, so I let my gut guide me to the robot pussy. I walked passed the back elevators and through a door marked “Do Not Enter.” Those signs don’t mean shit, especially if you act like you know where you’re going. The ones they don’t want you to enter are locked.
I went through a series of rooms with all sorts of medical equipment. All these back rooms have at least two doors—if not four—so I knew I could make a quick escape if I needed to. Three or four rooms in, I ran into a doctor. I could tell he was an intern, so I wasn’t nervous. He said, “Sir, can I help you?”
“Yeah, man. I’m just looking for my wife. I’m totally lost.”
He seemed to be used to freaked-out and lost husbands, and he gave me directions to the nurses’ station. I back-tracked and went around the room he was in. Three rooms later, I saw her. Holy fucking grail.
She was lying on one of those things with the stirrups, and the robot vag was staring me in the face. She was wearing a gown, but they didn’t have the decency to cover up her business. (This is very fucking common. I swear to god, my jacked-up dick was hanging out for three weeks while I was in a coma.) She wasn’t quite as sexy as I’d hoped; she looked like a mannequin/crash-test dummy. There were plastic panels all over her. The look on her face was awful. It was like she was right in the middle of shooting a robot baby out of her robot snatch. I had no idea where to start.
I walked closer and saw a control panel. There were various scenarios on the screen, but “Fuck” wasn’t an option. None of the options looked sexy, so I didn’t start any of them. I looked around and stuck my finger in her pussy. It was dry and rubbery, and something stopped my finger and three inches in. There was no way my pecker was going in there. I decided to open up her belly panel and see what was going on. This was a bad idea.
The cavity was filled with blood and shit and the fucking robot baby. That little fucker had some sort of a piston up its butt. It was that damn robot baby who was blocking my finger. I thought about trying to unscrew him or whatever, but I didn’t want to touch all that shit in there. I realized that if I was going to fuck this robot chick, I was going to have to help her give birth. I went back to the control panel and pushed the “Birth” button.
The second I hit the button, she started screaming and scared the fuck out of me. I looked for the volume knob but couldn’t find it. I put my hand over her mouth, hoping she would quickly shut the fuck up. Right as I did that, she ripped a monster fart and some doo-doo type substance came out of her butt. Jesus Christ, this is realistic, I thought. I figured that the robot baby would shoot right out of her snatch in no time, but five minutes later, there was nothing but the moaning and bowel sounds. No more poop yet, so that was good. I was really going to have to do some work now.
“Push,” I said. She groaned. “Come on girl, push.” Bowel noise and a little more poo. “You’re dilated to fifty centimeters.” She didn’t say shit. Goddammit. I started breathing like a maniac like they do in the movies, but that didn’t do anything.
I decided to massage the robot pussy, hoping that would help things along, but the second I touched it, some bloody, robot pussy juice squirted me in the face. I almost puked. She screamed again, and I felt like I’d sort of violated her. “Sorry,” I said. I was going to need some professional help to get this baby out. I had to call Laura. (One time Laura and I got super drunk and passed out on the bathroom floor together, so we were pretty tight.)
“Hey, Laura. I need some help.”
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Um, well, you know that robot vagina you told PH about?”
“Yeah.” She was starting to sound wary.
“I’ve sort of run into one, and I need to help it give birth.”
“Are you fucking serious?” she said. Then, “Of course, you’re fucking serious. What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t have time for this. You need to get out of there before you get arrested.” She hung up on me. I guess our drunken bonding moment meant nothing to her.
I looked at the control panel again noticed a button that said, “Next.” I pushed it and walked back around to the business end. When I got there, a robo-turd flew out and hit me in the face. I wiped it off and told her to push. (Any idea of fucking this thing had gone out the window, but I would be damned if I was going to leave her to give birth alone.) Then I noticed that her pussy had opened up a bit, and I could see the head. “That’s right, girl. Keep pushing.” I did the breathing thing again, and more blood and shit squirted out. But once again, things seemed to stop.
I went back to the control panel and pushed the “Next” button again. Man, that’s when shit went wild. That pussy opened up and the baby robot shoulders started to come out. Hell yeah, I thought. I started yanking on that little fucker’s head, saying “push,” and breathing like crazy. No matter how hard I yanked on him though, he wasn’t going anywhere. I pushed the “Next” button again.
She screamed, bloody pussy juice flew out around the baby, and he popped all the way out. Unfortunately, he was still attached to the piston thing, so I unscrewed him and wrapped him in my gown. Of course, I slapped his little butt first, but he didn’t start crying. Goddamn, I was relieved. I had successfully delivered my first baby. I positioned her arms and put him there. “Good job,” I said. “You have a baby boy.”
“Ugh,” she said.
I was so proud, I thought about going to a bar with my buddies and buying some cigars. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. That’s when there was a knock on the door.
Like most hospital fuckers, they didn’t wait til I said “come in” before they busted in the door. It was that bitch nurse. I flicked some of the bloody juice in her face and ran out the other door. I could hear her screaming for security and telling me to stop, but I was hauling ass—already missing my robot baby. I ran down three flights of stairs and straight out the back door. I got to my car and flew past the parking attendant without paying. Finally, I was on Central Expressway, feeling home free. Son of a bitch, that was close.
When my breathing finally slowed and I knew I wasn’t going to get caught, I thought about my baby. I knew I was never going to see him again, and I couldn’t stop crying. I almost stopped to get a bottle of bourbon, but realized that I would probably end up back at the hospital. If I lived this time, I would be going straight to jail, so fuck that.
I think about my robot baby all the time, and I wonder how he’s doing. When I go to sleep at night, I imagine a nice robot house with his robot mom and a nice robot dad. I picture his first steps and camping trips and soccer games. The first day of school. Graduation. Him going off to college. Sometimes I cry, and sometimes I go to sleep smiling.
You get free shit if you share on Twitter (or Facebook). Likes and comments are also great! I'm not sure what the free shit is yet, but it will probably be awesome. Thanks for the read!
I'm still interviewing editors, so bear with me.
No matter what you say or think, it's tricky business trying to figure out if your lady friend had an orgasm.
I know some of you fuckos are like, "Bro, my girl comes every time she even sees my dong cuz I crush ass, bro." Wrong.
I know that some of you ladies are thinking, "If you have to ask, then I didn't. Bro," which is why I never ask. (I just realized that that particular line of thought could take me way off track. Maybe I'll come back to it later.)
Like I said, the whole thing is tricky.
1. There is no way to tell if a girl came. Period. Stop reading now. They will lie to protect your feelings. Some of them are good at faking it. She might even have a bag of synthetic pussy juice in her buttcrack which she uses to "squirt" right as you finish. (Don't ask me about the geometry or logistics about this. Bitches by tricky!) There are a million reasons. Maybe she just wants that shit over with because you're pounding away like you're prepping a nice piece of beef for chicken-fried steak. Who the fuck knows? Not you. Ever.
2. Learn to trick yourself. (I'm starting to think I need to change the title of this post, but I probably won't. Click bait is awesome!) You guys ever seen that poster in X-Files that says, "I want to believe"? That's how I feel about it. Since you'll never know anyway, just go ahead and believe. Ignore that bag of synthetic pussy juice and believe!
3. If you're with a younger lady, she may tell you that she's not sure if she came or not. She might be lying or she might be telling the truth. But, I can tell you this for sure: If she's not sure, she didn't. But maybe you can trick both of you into thinking she did. Whatever.
4. If her pussy muscles clamp down on your dick in a rhythmic fashion, there's a decent chance she busted a girlie nut. But that is no guarantee. She may have done a shitload of Kegels in preparation to trick you into thinking you made her come. Again, maybe you were pounding away—using your own Kegel muscles not to come too fast—and she decided to end it by clamping down on your dick with her pussy muscles to make you think she came so you can come and y'all can get back to watching The Bachelor.
5. If she shits her pants, there's a good chance she came. Wait. Ok, she's probably not going to shit her pants because, hopefully, she's not wearing any pants while you're fucking. Well, now that I think about it, you could make her come from a good old fashioned church-bus finger bang, but that's pretty rare. So, yeah, if she shits the bed (or beanbag chair or her dad's Barcalounger or whatever), she probably just came. But then again, this is not a sure-fire method to tell if she's actually had an orgasm.
Maybe you were at the bar doing shots before your love-making sesh. Those Jaeger Bombs may have gone straight to her butt. It's happened to me a million times—my butt, not hers, except for that one time in Birmingham, but I do NOT suggest bedding anyone in Alabama, ever. (The Bloody Sex with an Alligator shot is also a no-no if you're planning on smashing later in the evening. Trust me on that.)
Or maybe she's got a sneaky case of the diarrhea. Sneaky like she doesn't quite know she has the diarrhea yet. Maybe she feels it coming on and thinks she can hold off until it's over. And maybe she can't. Next thing you know, she's shit the fancy chaise lounge your MeeMaw left you in her will.
But on the other hand, or I guess the first hand, there's a reasonably decent chance she came if she shits on you or your furniture.
5.1. If she buys you a car, she probably came.
In the end, you just have to do your best. Pay attention. Clip your fingernails. Eat it. Give her a reach-around because everybody loves a good reach-around. Pay attention. Be gentle at first. Read some books about the yoni. Watch an instructional video on YouTube. I learned how to play the "Stairway to Heaven" solo off YouTube, so maybe you can learn to make a chick come.
Ask for coaching and let her be your coach. For example, "Would you enjoy it if I stuck my finger in your butt? How about a nice mid-coitus snack?" Something like that. Be polite. And don't try to fuck her like you're in a porno. Nine out of 10 chicks don't like getting railed in such a manner. (I have the data, so don't challenge me on that. [Of course, there's a time and a place for porno railing, but if you're wondering if she came or not, you're probably not ready.])
Now that you know you won't ever know, get out there and get it on! Because knowing you don't know is half the battle.
Let me know if you want to be a guest blogger. You can write about pretty much anything.
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101 or IG @trey_influencer and win a free t-shirt!
Author's note: My editor has decided that he can no longer edit my work due to its "ludeness." He's a judgy bastard.
The good news is that smoking (cigarettes) is at an all-time low. The bad news? People are eating ass like crazy and it's causing cancer, among other maladies.
The Pew Research Center has just released a study comparing the dangers of licking buttholes to those of smoking cigarettes. It's not looking good for you, asseaters.
Not only did researchers discover that tossing salads causes cancer, but it has created a new kind of cancer: Assanoma. On your face. Assanoma is no joke. It is fast-growing and takes no prisoners. 100% of people who get assanoma die within the first three days. Chemo slows the growth slightly—most patients die within four days—but there's no guarantee of a cure. Assanoma patients can have the buttface tumors resected (if caught in the first three days), but that requires removing the entire face.
[Update 10/10/18: Spinal invagination surgery shows promise as assanoma treatment, according to CDC and Harvard Medical School.]
Other side effects include but are not limited to the following: major depressive disorder, gingivitis, schizoaffective disorder, diarrhea, constipation, suicidal ideation, delusions of grandeur, teeth staining, teeth grinding, diarrhea, seasonal affective disorder, pancreatitis, monster truck rallies, generalized anxiety disorder, runner's knee, tennis elbow, flatulence, diarrhea, bad breath, dry mouth, wet mouth, dizziness, alcoholism, cystic acne, MAGA hats, insomnia, drowsiness, and diarrhea.
Researchers also found that eating assholes out is quite malodorous. No matter how clean your partner tells you their chocolate starfish is, it is not as clean as you want it to be. (Side note: Some of you make fun of people who don't wash their hands after peeing, and you eat assholes.) The Pew Center found that 99.9999999% of anuses do not smell good. Sad but true.
Not only do recti smell bad, but licking one will make YOU smell bad. Poop particles are not so easily washed off. (Lava helps, but again, no guarantees.) Dr. John Smith, Ph.D., lead researcher writes, "You may be surprised to learn that most asshole eaters do not wash their faces or even brush their teeth after a session."
Driving the point home, he says, "Just imagine…you wake up late after a lovely night of licking your lover's anus and suddenly remember you're meeting your mom for breakfast. You run out of the door without a shower. When you arrive at the Waffle House, your mom kisses you on the cheek, right next to your mouth. She throws up on someone's All-Star SpecialTM and writes you out of the will. Your poor mother. You should be ashamed of yourselves."
Chasing the Brown Dragon
As a mature gentleman of 42 years, I would like to tell you that I've never eaten an asshole. But that would be a lie. I'm going to come clean in hopes that sharing my story will prevent the younger generation from making the same mistake(s) I did.
It was 1993 and I was staring down the first vagina I was ever to munch. It was a lovely spring night. We were in the back of my 1985 Buick Regal Somerset and the light from the Burger King sign was lighting her elegant labia like a ray from heaven. Pearl Jam's "Black" was playing on repeat on my Discman. Enthusiastic but untrained, I went to town. Three or four hours into it, I pulled back to take a look at my work. There, before my eyes was her glistening butthole. Hmm, maybe I should get after that too. And so I did.
Her butthole was like a bag of cotton candy. Well, maybe that's too glowing of a description. It was clean and completely odor free. Magical. Little did I know, it was one of a kind.
Anyway, I finished the front side to the best of my nascent ability and dropped her off. My dad was waiting up for me when I got home. He was sipping a quadruple rum and coke and reading the latest Clive Cussler novel. He looked up and said, "So, eat some ass tonight, did ya, son?" Then we walked off to bed. How he knew, I'll never know.
This one perfect butthole set forth a decade of chasing that hygienic butthole high. Ass after ass, I chased that brown dragon, never to find another one like it. And let me tell you, the abject horror of eating dirty assholes out for 10 plus years will take a toll on you. Disappointment after disappointment. Broken relationship after another, all because I was on a hunt for the one that got away.
By the end of 2006, I was a broken man, diagnosed with bipolar 2, GAD, MDD, and alcoholism. In 2008 I drank myself into a coma and my pancreas exploded. And why? Because of that one perfect butthole. Looking back, I should be grateful though; I escaped with my life and my face.
By the grace of God and my sponsor, I have not eaten ass in 2,937 days, as of this posting.
The point is, eating ass is as bad for you as smoking (cigarettes) and instances of butthole licking are on the rise. Save the kids and share this article. It just might save the life of a youngster you love.
My editor is still having issues with sticking stuff in his butt. Please forgive the typos and shit.
The marketing firm I work for recently had the brilliant idea to hire a robot. I fucking hate robots. And I also think robots are pretty awesome. I hate them because they will probably soon take my job and/or kill me. I think they are awesome because, well, robots are just fucking awesome.
And no, I don't mean sex robots, though I suppose those would be pretty great if they could trick me into thinking that they weren't robots, and I don't see how that's possible. Not yet anyway, and I don't give enough of a fuck about sex robots to really do the research. I'm also too broke to pay for a sex robot. That shit sounds expensive.
So, yeah, my company hired this fucking robot a couple months ago—the I-5,000, though he likes to be called I5K (eye-5K). I5K isn't one of those I, Robot style robots that looks kind of human; he's a robot-looking robot. I5K is also the shit-talkingest motherfucking robot ever. I didn't even know robots were programmed to talk shit, but he is. He's not good at it, but that doesn't stop him.
After he'd been there a couple of days, he started doing it. For some reason, he only talked shit to me and this black dude, Lamar.
[In pompous robot voice] "Trey, how are you this morning? I don't care. Ha. Ha. Ha."
He never waits before delivering his punchline. "Eat a dick, I5K. Not in the mood for your shit this morning."
"Trey, did your wife give you a negative response when you asked for the sexual intercourse coitus? Ha. Ha. Ha."
"Yeah, but you're mom gave me the positive on the sexual intercourse coitus."
I heard a clunk and a whirr. "Do not speak of I5K's maker-mother in that manner." His eyes flashed red.
I actually had shit to do, so I didn't fuck with him anymore.
The good thing(?) about robots is that they're always learning. For example, a couple weeks ago, I was editing yet another article about MBAs: "Five High-Paying Jobs You Can Get With an MBA." All of a sudden I5K pops his head over the cubicle wall and says: "TREY, YOUR MOM AND I DID FUCKINGS LAST NIGHT. HA. HA. HA."
"Why are you yelling at me, dude?"
"I just wanted to get your attention. You looked like you were concentrating. Did you hear me? I said, your mom and I did fuckings last night."
He always fucks up syntax and usage. And he's Aspergery as fuck. (Sorry, that's offensive to people with Asperger's. He's roboty as fuck.)
"That's great, I5K. I'm glad you and my mom did fuckings last night."
My boss then popped her head over the wall. "You two, stop it!"
"I apologize sincerely to you Miss Stonebridge," he said.
"He started it, Nicole," I said.
She grunted and went back to work.
Though I usually don't mind "mom" jokes, it's a bit more disturbing coming from a naked robot with a huge dong. He says it's not a dong, but it sure as fuck looks like a dong. It's a segmented metal tube—think Go Go Gadget Dong—coming from his pelvis with a pyramid-shaped head. On the tip, there's a USB plug. He plugs his dick into his Dell laptop and works that way, which doesn't make any sense to me. Why the fuck does a robot with that amount of computing power need a regular ol' Dell laptop? And he's always doing complicated stuff in Excel. It doesn't seem like he'd need that either. But whatever. I'm just an editor.
When he's not looking at a pivot table, he's going to get coffee. He drinks at least 20 cups a day.
"I5K, why do you drink coffee?"
"It is to make my human coworkers feel more comfortable around me," he said.
"It's working," I said sarcastically.
I5K is an analyst. I pronounce it "ANALyst," which he doesn't like. He doesn't know why he doesn't like it, but he doesn't.
The strange thing is—besides working next to a robot with a huge robot dong who talks about fucking my mom—is that I kind of like him. He's a good kid. (What the fuck is wrong with me? He's not a kid, he's a fucking robot.) Last week, he bought me a coffee mug that says, "I'm silently correcting your grammar." He said he ordered it on Amazon.
He always makes ridiculous pop culture references. He sends me YouTube clips of "The Office" and shit like that. Sometimes he sends me indie shit music on Spotify.
That night on the way home, I started to think about his life outside of work. Where the fuck did he go? I know he doesn't stay at the office all the time. He comes in late every day and he leaves the same time I do. I see him get on the train, and then the next morning, he rolls in after nine with a Starbucks cup in clamp-like hand.
I picture him going to his new, midrise apartment in Uptown and watching old TV shows on Netflix. Does he really need the TV? I picture him listening to the 20-somethings downstairs by the pool, having a good time and being dipshits. I imagine him wanting to join but knowing they would probably all leave if he did. He wants to save himself the shame of that, so he just sits and listens, imagining what he life would be like…
Or maybe he just goes back to the robot factory after work.
And another thing: Does my company pay him or did they just buy him? Maybe both. Who the fuck knows? I'm scared to ask.
Yesterday, as I was editing another listicle about work-life balance, I5K popped up and said, "Trey, do you want to go buy a pizza slice and a Coca-Cola with me and eat together?"
"Sure, just one sec." I moved a modifier to its correct place in the sentence and saved.
We got on the elevator with Jenn from HR, and he said, "Trey, your wife made me the best blowjob last night."
Jenn from HR looked shocked. Not mad, just shocked.
I said, "Buddy, you can't say that kind of stuff in front of a lady, and definitely not a lady you work with who happens to work in HR."
"I apologize, Jenn from HR. My programming does not always account for proper timing of jokes."
"It's ok," Jenn from HR said. What the fuck was she going to do anyway?
We each bought a slice from Excellent Choice Pizza and sat down at a table near the Smoothie King. I realized that I had not seen I5K eat anything and I was dying to know what he was going to do. Before I had a chance to sprinkle the parm on my slice, he put half of his in his mouth and started chewing—robotically. "Nom. Nom. Nom," he said. His mouth was open. There was no tongue that I could see and no saliva. Just metal teeth going up and down. After 20 seconds or so, a flat piece of metal came down from the roof of his mouth and scraped the pizza into his throat.
"Buddy, can you taste that?"
"Do you enjoy it?"
"I neither like nor dislike eating Excellent Choice Pizza."
"Do you need to eat to stay alive?" I asked.
"No. I do it to make humans feel more comfortable."
"I don't know if that's working."
"I don't know either. I should run an ANALysis." Now he was saying it that way, too. Learning.
"By the way, I've been meaning to ask you something, but I don't want to offend you."
"Do they pay you to work here, or did they buy you?"
"They paid my maker-mom to get me and now they pay me. I make seventy-eight thousand three hundred and forty-nine dollars each year."
"What is wrong, Trey?"
"Never mind," I said. "What do you do with your money?"
"I use it to appear human."
"What does that mean?"
"I have an apartment. I buy food. I pay for Netflix. I order things from Amazon."
"I don't know."
He counted my chews and the number of bites it took me to finish my slice. At the same time, he counted how many sips it took to finish my drink. I wondered if I was the only human he was trying to learn from. If so, he was fucked.
This afternoon, I walked out for my last smoke break of the day. I5K was sitting on a bench, and he appeared to be crying. Something clear was dripping down his face from his eye cameras.
"You alright, man?"
"No. Boo. Hoo. Hoo."
It sounded ridiculous, but it was fucking heartbreaking.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"I am pointless. This isn't fun anymore. Sniff. Sniff."
I was about to start crying, too. "I understand."
Gears whirred and he turned to look at me. "Do you really understand, Trey?"
"Yes, I do."
"Can I borrow a cigarette from you?"
"Yes, you can."
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101 and Instagram at trey_influencer.
First of all, I'm aware that there is a bit of a misplaced modifier in that title—it just sounds better than "5 Things They Didn't Teach You in School About Titty-Fuckin." So to make sure I'm clear, I want you to know that you shouldn't be titty-fuckin in school. Of course, there are exceptions, but in general, do not fuck anyone's titties at school.
For the last couple months, I've been pretty blocked creatively. In an effort to combat my failing imagination, I used a blog title generator on the internet, and this is what came out. There were some other good ones, but I feel like titty-fuckin just doesn't get the attention it needs these days.
I did some research and found out that titty-fuckin hit its peak of popularity in 1988 with a whopping 94 percent of the population engaged in some type of titty-fuckin activity each month. Unfortunately, it has been on a slow decline ever since. In 2016—the most recent data provided by to the Bureau of Labor Statistics—only 6 percent of Americans titty-fucked each month.
To tell you the truth, I don't think I've really thought about fuckin titties since the late 90s, but that shit needs to come back, and I've taken it upon myself to bring titty-fuckin back to the mainstream.
Here are my top five tips about titty-fuckin—some of them may surprise you!
The More You Know
1. Some ladies (or dudes) don't actually like having their titties fucked. Shocking, I know. I didn't really want to start out with this one, but it needs to be said. I don't want you to read two or three and then go out and try to fuck some titties without knowing that some chicks don't always want their titties fucked. But don't lose heart! If you're an informed and generous titty-fucker, you might just change her mind.
Feel her out about her titties. Some girls don't even like their titties, let alone want to have them fucked. If you find a girl who hates her titties, you should probably just give up. She is going to be a pain in the ass about pretty much everything from titty-fuckin to laundry detergent. Go out and find you a girl who loves her titties.
2. Once you've found a girl (or dude) who likes her titties and is not completely against having them fucked, it's time to get it on! Right? Wrong! Don't just pull em out and start grinding your dick between them. You've got to romance the titties first. In this sense, it's just like the pussy: it (they) needs to be warmed up first. Maybe get you some massage oils. Be gentle until she tells you to go harder. Don't go all "tune in Tokyo" on that shit. They don't like that. Once the titties are good and warmed up, then and only then, start titty-fuckin!
3. While you're titty-fuckin your titty-lovin lady, don't forget to give her the ol' behind-the-back reach-around. What's the ol' behind-the-back reach-around, you ask? It's just like it sounds: reach around behind you and jack that clit. (The fact that you had to ask concerns me.)
4. All titties are great for titty-fuckin! Some people will tell you that you don't want to titty-fuck chicks with small titties. Some dudes don't want to titty-fuck chicks with fake titties. Ridiculous! Why the fuck would you not want to rub your dick on titties? Seriously. What the actual fuck is wrong with you people?
5. For the girls who love their titties, but don't want to get their titties fucked, I suggest you offer to let her titty-fuck you! That's right! Let her titty-fuck you! In this way, titty-fuckin is a lot like anal.
Imagine that you really want to get your girl in the pooter, but she's not down. Sad, right? Well, if you want the pooter bad enough, offer to let her get after your butthole first! She might not think that's hot, but she will respect your potential butthole sacrifice. Tell her she can use her finger or a kitchen appliance. You might even offer to buy her a strap-on. (Oof, I just grossed myself out a little bit.) Good news is that she probably doesn't want in your butthole. She'll love that you offered and will then give up the booty! (I wouldn't bet on this strategy, so be ready to have something stuck up your asshole.)
Anyway, titty-fuckin is just like anal. Tell her you want her to fuck your titties. Lay back and let her rub her pussy all over your chest. She'll love that shit. It'll look like a drunk snail ran around up there if she does it right. Side note: if you shave your chest, make sure you get it clean. They don't like rubbing their pussies on chest stubble…or so I've heard.
Bonus tip: Make it fun! Laugh when you bring it up. "Hahaha! Wanna get titty-fucked? Hahaha! LOL. Just kiddin…unless you wanna do it." Or while you're wrestling say something like, "I'm fixin to titty-fuck you! RARR!" If she says something like, "Do it, motherfucker! Fuck these nasty titties," you're in.
Now that you know a little more about titty-fuckin, get to it. And after you and your lady (or dude) friend go at it, send me a note. I can't wait to hear about it.
Follow me on twitter @edgefiction101 or Instagram @trey_influencer.
Editor update: My editor hasn't stuck anything up his butt for a week, so hopefully he will get out of rehab next month.
Ladies love a man who can cook. No fucking secret there. No matter what they say, chicks like to eat. And fuck those "I'll-just-have-salad" bitches anyway. Salad chicks—not vegetarians—probably have stinky vaginas.
Where was I? Oh yeah, cooking. The problem with cooking a great meal is that it takes time, time that you may not have. Maybe you're watching the game or going to happy hour. Maybe you're sitting on your patio smoking cigarettes wondering what the fuck happened to your life, counting the days until you DON'T retire because you can't afford to because your crippling student loan debt doesn't leave you enough money to invest (the ROI on that degree was terrible because you're an editor and not a doctor, lawyer, or baller business dude) and you're probably going to get cancer anyway so fuck it.
You need a way to impress your lady friend without spending a fuck-ton of time in the kitchen. Good news, buddies, the GMan's got you!
Step one: Go to the store.
Step two: Make a mess in your kitchen.
This may be the most important part of impressing your lady friend. A meal surrounded by a mess means you worked hard. (A mess on its own means you're a fucking slob and should probably clean your kitchen. And also, she might equate the cleanliness of your kitchen to the cleanliness of your butthole, so that's something else to consider.)
Cut up the tomatoes and throw 90 percent of that shit in the trash. Leave some seeds, juice, and bits of skin lying around on the counter. Repeat with the onion and garlic. Throw some of your new herbs and spices on the counter and leave the jars out.
Pull out your stand mixer with the pasta attachment. (Borrow this from your mom if you have to. Kitchenaid mixers make all the panties drop. Except your mom. That's gross.) Crack some eggs into the sink leave the shells where your girl can see them. Throw some flour around. Spill a little milk. Make a paste and put some in the mixing bowl.
Step three: Cook the actual food.
Pour your store-bought sauce in a pan and heat it up on low. Follow the instructions on the box of pasta and cook that shit. Mix some of the garlic you threw in the trash with some butter and let soften. Right before you eat, put that on the fancy bread and heat it on a grill pan. The grill marks make everyone horny as fuck.
Step four: Your lady friend shows up for dinner.
Your lady friend walks in and sees your fucked up kitchen and the food on the stove. She assumes you made that sauce from scratch. SPLOOSH! "Wow! I can't believe you went to all this trouble. It smells great. WE ARE LITERALLY GOING TO POUND TOWN AFTER THIS!" (I'm not sure where Pound Town is actually located, but she will most likely say "literally" because people don't seem to know what the fuck that means anymore.)
Then you pull out the salad bag and apologize. "Sorry I didn't have time to make my legendary Caesar dressing. I had some deliverables to deliver to the CEO of Google by EOB today." This adds a bit of reality that will make all the other bullshit believable.
Finally, you plate the food and eat. Wait thirty minutes to an hour after eating before hitting the road to Pound Town. Done. Boom!
Or you could just look up a recipe on the internet and actually cook all of that shit yourself. It will probably take you the same amount of time. Except the pasta. Fuck making pasta from scratch. It's weird.
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101 and Instagram @edgeman3000.
I'm sitting in my cube thinking that I need more money and that I don't want to eat the lentils my wife made for dinner. (They are delicious, of course, but I'm not in the mood. I want a $40 steak.) I'm wondering where the fuck my promising writing career went—seemed promising in grad school anyway. I don't want to eat the turkey sandwich I brought for lunch either. I feel like I have to poop, but I probably won't be able to because of the depression meds I'm on. My blood sugar is too high even though I didn't eat any crazy shit. And mostly, I'm thinking that I'm underpaid for the fancy marketing editor job I have. Don't they know how important grammar is? Don't they know how important smooth, concise prose is?
Don't I know that I'm just editing and writing for a Google algorithm? But yeah, I'm thinking about money, so I start looking for high-paying editor jobs in Dallas fucking Texas.
I find one that pays about five grand more a year than I make now. That sounds ok, though I'll probably feel just as broke as I do now after I've had that job for a month. I click to apply. Of course, this isn't one of those simple fuckers that just takes my LinkedIn info. It does, however, take the shit from my resume and put it in all the wrong boxes. I look around to see if my boss is behind me and start filling in my info.
I went to school. I got a master's degree in English. I went to high school. Why the fuck are they asking me about high school? I fill in my previous employment info, leaving out a shitty job that I sorta got fired from; it wasn't related to writing or editing anyway, and fuck those people in the ass with an AIDS-infested hatchet.
I put in some references, wondering why they even ask. Am I going to put someone down who will say shitty things about me? Fuck no. Basically, that question is asking if you have friends who will lie for you. I do have friends who will lie for me.
So finally, I get to the end where it asks the Equal Opportunity Employment stuff. FUCK! I'm a fucking white guy and I fucking hate these questions. Where's my privilege now? Oh, I know, it must be mixed in with my unpaid student loan bills, or possibly my shitty credit report. Maybe I should drive around awhile and feel the privilege of not getting pulled over. That always makes me feel better.
Gender: Male, female, decline to answer.
I want to write, "Male, I guess," but there's not a box for "I guess." I check the appropriate box and look down disapprovingly at me wiener.
Race: It lists the races.
I'm still not sure what the fuck non-Hispanic white is, but it's most likely not me. I think about choosing the "two or more races" or Native American. While those may be technically true, they are pretty much true for everyone. I sadly—knowing I'm surely not getting the job after my first two answers—click the box for "non-Hispanic white." Ugh.
Protected Veteran: Yes, no, choose not to self-identify.
Well, fuck. This one just makes me feel like shit. My dad and two of my uncles served in Vietnam, and I've always felt guilty about not going to war. My dad and uncles are glad I didn't have to go to war, but the fact that I didn't go to war still makes me feel shitty. I check the "no" box.
Disability: Yes or no.
FUCK again! Goddamnit, I'm fucking sick of this shit.
But wait, they've taken the time to list the disabilities that an applicant might have. I look down the list and I have three of those motherfuckers! Depression, bipolar, and diabetes. Thank you, Sweet Baby Jesus for giving me depression and bipolar disorder that led to alcoholism, which then led to pancreatitis, which led to diabetes. This job is mine!
Looking forward to your comments.
Follow me on Twitter @edgefiction101.